Cold
by Doll of the Devil
Summary: There is no room for doubt in this matter: Ciel Phantomhive hates the winter season. Pre-SebaCiel. Disturbing Themes (including Blood/Gore/Cannibalism). A bit fluffy too, near the ending. Sequel to 'Fall'.


**Cold**

**(kōld), adj, cold·er, cold·est:**  
1. Cold weather, the winter season; 2. An emotion so intense as to be almost uncontrollable; 3. Dead; 4. Having lost all freshness or vividness through passage of time, lacking emotion; 5. Having a temperature lower than normal body temperature, a viral infection;

* * *

There is no room for doubt in this matter, no purpose in explaining why; the issue happens to be even clearer than the crystal ice that hangs sparkling from the cold rims of the veranda of the grant mansion.

Ciel Phantomhive hates the winter season.

* * *

The young, very-soon-to-be-Earl had taken a seat upon the bitter tiles of the grand entrance hall. Two petite feet and ten numb, little, wriggling toes tucked beneath his bottom, his small, curled hands placed neatly into the lap of his snow-white nightgown.

His heavenly blue eyes were engrossed in the sight before him: a large long-case clock and, in particular, the tick-tocking of those three metal hands.

_Two minutes, one minute, a few seconds… _

Anxious and nervous, the boy's fingers entwined themselves into the expensive Egyptian cotton material, until (finally!) all three hands joined one another.

The little one brightened; every single, passing chime making his smile widen just a little more, until the twelfth had echoed around him and he was positively beaming.

The little one trashed through the hall and up great staircase, almost skipping with glee.

"Mama, Papa! I'm ten years now!"

* * *

_"God rest ye merry, gentlemen,_

_let nothing you dismay..."_

His small, hesitant voice echoed through cellar – the notes high ad light, both due to youth and the chill Christmas air that had settled beneath his clothes, beneath his skin. They had been told by those merry but everything but gentle men, that today was Christmas and that it would be celebrated by having a very special Christmas 'feast'.

_"Remember, Christ, our Saviour,_

_was born on Christmas day..."_

The boy's soft voice was drowned out by the singing of the girl on the table – her voice elevated and shrill, the notes irregular. She sung – she sung for a saviour, for a hero, for_ someone_.

They seemed to enjoy it, that kind of music.

_"To save us all from Satan's power,_

_when we were gone astray..."_

And then it was gone. The song stopped abruptly – one piercing, last note that stretched towards the four walls, bounced of the concrete, and blasted back towards the centre with all the might it had along with her last breath.

And only now, the feast could start.

_"O tidings of comfort and joy,_

_comfort and joy..."_

Oh, and they were joyful - drinking the fresh, scarlet wine they had so thoroughly obtained, that was slipping from its damaged decanter onto the table, dripping onto the floor. Eating the pink, uncooked meat they had so satisfactorily slaughtered; and the finest quality it was! So very young, still! The poor lamb could not have been more than 8 years of age!

At last, no saviour had come.

No–one had come to save her - to save them. No–one to keep them from Satan's grasp; though he had seen no Satan yet. Only men - humans, who had lost their humanity; washed away with the flowing blood, like the sea that washes away footsteps in sand, and it is almost like no-one has been there - after all.

_"O tidings of comfort and joy…"_

* * *

"Let me go!"

_Grinning faces behind dark masks. _

"I want to go home!"

_Manically glittering, dark eyes._

"Please, someone… Please…"

_Ruthless grabbing hands. Stealing virtue. Stealing pride._

"It does not matter who! It does not matter how! Save me!"

_Laughter, slaughter…_

"Oh? What a tiny master this is."

* * *

Cold is what they called him. They, being the whispering mouths, hissing into tittle-tattle catching ears, one calls society.

Cold-hearted, cold-blooded - emotion-less, that's what he had become. He could not help it, himself. Every year, he was made to recall that particular event:

As soon as the last leaf had ceased its twirling, and had fallen down and died – like he did, once – he remembered. The pure, white snow, mocking him for being void of innocence and purity. The Christmas bells and that merry singing, making him recall 'celebrating' Christmas _there_. Old and New Year... the clinging of glasses sounded suddenly very much like the clattering sounds of those metal bars and chains.

The birth of Christ; the birth of the_ Earl _Phantomhive, who had forsaken God, in favour of a devil.

And who truly despised the frost.

* * *

He could see the lithe shivers that racked the young boy's frame, the watering of his eyes as he fought to keep them open, the blue of his lips. Harsh, winter wind sizzled around the pair, slipped beneath their clothes and lifted their dark tresses, and revealed their fortunes; one of them on the verge of frostbite, the other severely injured.

"I don't doubt the fact that you will be quite ill when we return, my Lord," he said, his voice even despite the enormous gash that stretched itself all the way through his upper body and should have withheld him from speaking (living) at all.

The young Lord seemed nearly (only nearly) too exhausted to glare, burying his pale visage into his raised knees, encircled by his shuddering arms.

_How fragile human beings were, to be suffering so greatly after a mere stumble into the ice water. _

As if struck by lightening, or perhaps it were the weaves that crashed into the side of the small boat, the butler fell into another distressing fit of deep, pain-filled coughs.

(_Damn death-god...)_

"Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?" the boy questioned. His tone held a slight edge of humour, but the amusement did not reach his large, ocean-mirroring eyes. The butler, though embarrassed significantly for his behaviour was far from his usual strong composure, somehow managed a smile:

"I suppose that we will be sharing the hospital bed then, hmm?"

Sebastian could see his master's cheeks faintly regaining their natural shade, and felt the corners of his lips turn upwards even further.

"Yes, I suppose so," the boy muttered eventually and, although it may have gone unobserved by a common person, the devil could see the younger one inching slightly closer to him, needing a companion in his unusual tenderness.

The butler carefully lifted his left, blood covered arm, and laid it securely around his contractor's slim waist – shielding him from the cold – and let it remain there in comfortable silence.

_Perhaps a cold wouldn't be so bad_, he thought happily.


End file.
